


Warm Regards

by Hustlepuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Multi, Original Character-centric, Other, first wizarding war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-04 23:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17908016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hustlepuff/pseuds/Hustlepuff
Summary: By 1977, conflict, fear, and darkness had become a permanent backdrop to many people’s lives as the war continues to claim many victims. One of the most recent ones is the sweet, shy, and withdrawn Violet Inskip, who seems to have died under somewhat unclear circumstances. Violet’s two best friends try to deal with loss, grief, and a pestering feeling that something about Violet’s death doesn’t seem quite right, all while trying to balance their school life, friendship, love, magical stationery, and becoming adults along the way. Meanwhile, a Death Eater in training is going through some turmoil of his own...





	1. Prologue

“Nope, can’t see nuthin’,” said Mulciber, his large frame comically hunched over.

“Then look closer, idiot,” hissed Evan Rosier, but nevertheless turned his forearm a little, trying to catch the light. Cyril Fidgette squinted; The sun had begun to set, but it hadn’t quite gotten dark enough yet for the street lights to provide any contrast, and if there had been something there, none of the four boys seemed to be able to see it. A part of him wished to conjure more light but was too afraid of drawing attention.

“Wait,” said Avery a little too loudly for comfort, and seized Rosier’s arm. “There!”

Cyril flinched and looked around. The street seemed peaceful, and so did the immediately visible area of Diagon Alley just around the corner, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this had been an entirely too daring amount of exposure. One look at Snape’s dissatisfied face confirmed that he seemed to be sharing this opinion.

“I see it! There! There it is!” Avery now half-shouted in excitement. All four boys leaned further in; Cyril’s eyes followed Avery’s long, slender finger, pointing at a faint – was that a vein? A crease in the skin? – no, there was certainly something else there, and the longer Cyril stared, the easier it was for him to discern lines that didn’t belong with the usual human anatomy; skin-colored, barely raised, there was a slightly elongated curve of a skull, with a form coming out of its mouth that, the more Cyril strained his eyes, began looking more snake-like.

“Woah,” Mulciber said. For a few moments, they watched in silence.

Rosier looked like he had grown a few inches taller. “See,” he scoffed.

“It’s awfully pale,” said Cyril.

“It’ll turn darker with time.”

“Did it hurt?” asked Avery.

Rosier thought for a second too long, and Cyril immediately knew why – he was pondering which answer sounded cooler. If he said that it hurt a lot, he might seem like a hero now, but if he said that he hadn’t felt a thing, he’d seem braver than the rest of them in case they were to experience pain while, hopefully, receiving their marks in the future.

“Yes,” he ended up saying. “A little.”

There was a sharp, concerned gasp.

“Relax, Snape,” Rosier rolled his eyes. “I said it was just a little. Even you could take it if you were to get that far.”

Snape, however, didn’t seem at all frightened of pain. Instead, his pale face, with the look of absolute, frozen terror on it, was turned towards the street corner, where a still figure stood quietly. It was a girl, slight and dark-haired, mouth open and eyes glistening with shock under her fringe.

Several things lit up in Cyril at once; a spark of vague recognition – he knew her, from school, but wouldn’t bet on her name or year – cold, clammy fear crawling up his spine, and, finally, a rush of white-hot panic, before every tiny particle in and around him seemed to jump into frantic action. The girl turned and flailed, scrambling to make it back to Diagon Alley. Each of the boys rushed after her, including Cyril, though he didn’t know what guided him to do so save for pure reflex. He saw Avery, who was closest to the girl, reach for and nearly grab her, but then stagger and miss. Cyril lunged forward, grazing Rosier, who was fumbling around his robe, presumably in search of his wand. He heard commotion and a few shouts behind himself, felt bodies crashing into him, but he couldn’t stop now, she was right there, and there were only precious moments before she’d gain speed, and if she saw, if she saw, she would tell someone, and he could see her small back, clad in a drab knit cardigan, so, so close, and he reached out and finally made contact with the prickly fabric–

–submerged, it was like being dunked into something denser, quieter, thicker than water, something that didn’t stream or move except to assault his whole body with suffocating pressure–

–and he was on his hands and knees, which seared with pain, though he couldn’t recall the moment of impact with the ground. His eyes and mouth filled with dry, dusty dirt. Although his left hand was bloodied – it seemed he landed knuckles-first – his right palm fell on something soft, on some kind of drab knit, a piece of which – a sleeve? – he was still clutching with his fingers. The rest of the material, stretched and disfigured, was connected to something.

As the dust cloud around him settled, he could see a form, crumpled and small. She was on her back, still wearing the half of her cardigan that Cyril hadn’t tugged off, and the shoulder and arm which were still trapped in it jutted out and twisted at a bloodcurdlingly unnatural angle. The sight gave Cyril enough of a visceral reaction to jolt his body out of this haze at least somewhat – he couldn’t imagine something like this not hurting terribly, and it was more than likely that she had broken or disjointed something. A thought popped into his head - that he knew not a single healing spell - and upon pathetically attempting to stand up once, he realized he was too dizzy to do so. He crawled towards her, wondering if it would cause any further damage to move her.

It was really odd, he thought, that the girl wasn’t screaming in pain, and, in the very next moment, his gaze fell on her small, white face. One of her cheeks was covered in muck, and her fringe fell back to reveal her eyes, wide open, still, dark, and empty, save for the reflections of the night sky in them.

Cyril jumped back with a scream.

“Shut up, knobhead!” hissed Avery from behind him. “Alert the whole country, why don’t you!”

Cyril winced as he spun around. “You? Wh… how?”

“She Apparated,” Avery replied simply.

As if this snapped him back into consciousness, Cyril realized that he felt cold - much colder than a few moments ago - and that there was a breeze. He immediately looked around. All he could see were dark fields, a couple of rustling trees, the dirt road beneath, and the black night above him. He gave Avery another flustered look.

“I don’t know either,” Avery preempted, his eyes skimming the area. Cyril noticed that his gaze wasn’t going anywhere near where the girl lay, but he gestured in that direction with his clenched jaw. 

“Is she…?”

“I… I think so,” replied Cyril.

Silence fell on the two boys. Slowly, maintaining eye contact with each other, they both shuffled towards the body. Avery looked first.

“Fuck,” he bent over, dry-heaving.

Cyril, being more prepared for the sight, chanced another glance. The girl was still just as repulsively contorted as she had been moments ago, and her vacant eyes still stared at the sky, but this time he had braced himself, and he was able to endure, although his heart pounded thick, loud beats into his eardrums.

Her frame was quite short and thin, and even though he was certain he had known her from school, he still wasn’t able to place her in a house or a year. Her hair, cut into a bob cut, now lay in a shiny, dark halo around her head. Under her cardigan she wore a frumpy Muggle dress with a floral print, and, splayed about, it looked big enough to swallow her whole. Her bag, which seemed quite heavy and rather tight at the buckle, lay a bit further to the side, although it was still strapped to her body.

“What happened?” he asked out loud, but whether he was truly expecting an answer from Avery, or just asking himself, he didn’t know. “Where are the others?”

“Not sure,” Avery gave a choked reply between retches, “I think only you and I grabbed onto her. The rest are probably back in Knockturn Alley where we left them.”

Cyril nodded, then gave Avery a grave look. “Did you…?”

“Me? No!” he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “No, I didn’t. But… I did hear someone curse her. I don’t know who it was, but I guess he aimed well. He could have easily hit you or me,” Avery looked like he was about to gag again.

Heavy droplets of sweat, cooled by the sharp night breeze, slid down Cyril’s spine. Thousands of questions, fears, doubts, and feelings raced around in his mind, and he began pacing in a neat, short path. They had killed someone. _They had killed a schoolmate_ , he thought. _Shit._ Well, technically, he hadn’t been the one to do it; in fact, he didn’t quite know what his intention was when he chased after her. To contain her? Threaten her? Prove himself to the others by intimidating her into keeping quiet about what she saw? It certainly wasn’t to take her life. And over what? Just because she maybe, possibly, caught a glimpse of the Dark Mark-

His gut began to twist and churn as another rush of cold sweat seemed to chill him to the bone. The Dark Mark. He might never receive it now that they’ve fucked up so majestically. What will the higher members say when they find out? What will _he_ say? _Shit!_

He swiveled around, panicked and drenched, as if there was some sort of solution in the landscape around him, but found nothing but darkness, scorched grass and the sound of crickets. They’re going to have to do something, he thought. They’re going to have to find some way to fix his mess.

Holding his breath and pointedly looking not at the body, but the ground around it, he approached her. In one swift motion, he tugged off her heavy bag and swung it across his shoulder. Next, he grabbed the dirtied cardigan by its loose sleeve and tried to yank it off, but, due to the position the girl was in, her arm gave a sickening thump against the ground and he felt his stomach lurch, so he decided to leave it. He thought for a moment about holding her up by her armpits but felt unable to go any closer to her upper half. Instead, he bent over and reached for her ankles. He stopped himself right before he would touch them, feeling like a complete idiot; he pulled out his wand.

“What the fuck are you doing?” hissed Avery.

“We need to do something. Move her somewhere,” Cyril’s voice trembled. _Don’t cry now, don’t cry_ , he thought as the root of his nose and corners of his eyes began to burn. “You can hold the other end.”

“Move it where? What do you plan to do with it?”

Cyril froze mid-movement, his wand shaking in his hand, and came to a realization that he had no idea. His soaked clothes were sticking to his back. “What do you suggest?” he looked up at Avery. 

“Leave it here, wherever this is,” Avery replied. “If neither you and I know her name, she’s likely not worth knowing. That means no one of importance will care. The worst thing we could do is get more entangled by messing with it further. If it stays as is, no one will be able to connect her with us,” he nodded, breathing heavily, and looked like he was convincing himself.

Cyril thought for a few long moments. He couldn’t come up with anything to counter Avery.

“So… we just… go back? Like nothing happened?”

“We go back.”

Cyril took a hesitant step away from the body.

“Come on. The sooner we go back to the others, the sooner we can sort this out,” said Avery. He was pale and his voice cracked a little. He raised his wand.

The last thing Cyril saw before they both vanished with a loud crack was the sight of a frail, broken body, pathetically watching the stars. The last thing he heard was “don’t tell the others I hurled”.

* * *

Some sort of brownish liquid that had been ordered for Cyril was poured into his mug until it began foaming and crackling at the rim. He was too numb to pretend like he knew what it was and that he’d had it before, and at this moment, he didn’t even care to find out before he took a sharp, burning swig.

“Atta boy,” said Mulciber, taking a sip himself.

“Good on you for not taking it with you or something stupid like that,” whispered Rosier, giving Cyril an all too deliberate look, “but I still say someone needs to go back there and bury the body, for good measure.” Luckily, the other patrons of the White Wyvern seemed too busy with their own questionable purposes to pay attention to a group of teenagers hunched around a table in the corner.

“It’s no difference,” said Snape. Under the dim, yellowish light of the pub, his features looked even more stern than usual. “If Muggles get to her first, they won’t be able to piece it together. Magic would find her anyway, buried or not. Any way of destroying the body would only leave more traces behind, so I say, the less tampering, the better.”

“Besides,” added Avery, “I wouldn’t chance trying to Apparate back. It was just grass and dirt. Nothing to remember it by, nothing to focus on. I haven’t a clue as to where that was. Coulda been any place,” he shrugged. He still looked pale, Cyril noticed, but also slightly like he was enjoying the others’ attention.

“Who did it?” asked Cyril quietly.

The boys looked at each other, but none spoke. After a long pause, Rosier just shrugged, and this seemed an unspoken cue that this topic would be left alone.

“We tell no one,” he said, gently stroking his sleeve near the place where his faint Dark Mark would be.

“Not even Lucius?” asked Mulciber. “She was a Mudblood. Not like there’s any actual damage done. In fact, if we spin it right– “

“No one will be spinning anything,” said Rosier. “We’re barely in training, and we’re showing that we’re impulsive, reckless and disorganized. Lucius may be vouching for us, but if this spreads, both he and the others will have every reason to drop us…”

_Or worse_ silently hung in the air between them. 

“I’m with Rosier,” said Snape. “It’s important that we stick together and show the Dark Rebellion that we’re not just a bunch of clumsy children,” another pointed look came Cyril’s way, but he was too dazed to care.

Mulciber nodded without a response, signaling that was all he had to contribute. “Drink up,” he nudged Cyril, who obliged, too dazed to feel the taste of his drink.

“Fidgette? You see my reasoning here, right?” Rosier said with the air of someone who was now considering himself to be the leader of the small group. Cyril was only vaguely aware that he was annoyed by this. “We can do much more for the cause if we’re members of the movement. Isn’t that what all of us want? It would be a waste to throw away our own futures and the future of the entire magical community over one Mudblood who won’t be that missed anyway. Even if there is some ruckus about it, it will settle down on its own soon enough.”

Cyril’s brain swirled. He had a foggy thought half-forming in his mind that had something to do with _did she even see anything?_ but was unable to catch it before it evaporated. He wanted to give a nod but realized he had little control over the way which his head swung, and instead lifted his mug up. It was met with four other mugs, some loud clanking, and a few cheers.

* * *

When the barmaid came to shake them awake at closing time, the bluish daylight hurt Cyril’s eyes through the cracks between the window shutters, he had a pulsing headache, and the strap of a heavy bag, tightly packed and straining at the buckle, was still digging into his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Hello, dear reader, and welcome to my first ever fic. Thank you for giving my work a chance and getting this far! :) I have been trying to make myself post for a while and I finally bit the bullet. I hope you had fun, and if so, that you will continue to enjoy reading! :)**


	2. Grief in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two friends attend the funeral of a loved one and try to bridge the gap between them that was left behind.

The fresh mound of earth had already begun to dry in the unusually harsh summer sun. The mourners, few in numbers and mostly clad in sombre colours, exchanged constipated-looking glances, folding and unfolding their handkerchiefs. Even the inhabitants of Nether Leftshaw, whose legendary small-talk abilities were developed over generations of conditioning and careful selective breeding, found themselves powerless when faced with the inherently unpleasant funeral setting. After exhausting a repertoire of bland phrases of generic compassion such as “indeed a tragedy” and “what a world to live in”, there was little left to do but shuffle one's feet and awkwardly wait for an unspoken agreement that a socially appropriate amount of grieving had been reached.

Slightly to the side, because residents of places like Nether Leftshaw could sniff out any trace of weirdness like bloodhounds, stood two young women.

“What happens now?” whispered the shorter one, whose name was Claire, and who wore an old, moth-eaten pillbox hat which offered little protection from the sun, making her scrunch her nose while trying to shield her eyes with her hand. She was obviously aware that the dress-code for funerals was universally 'black', but that seemed to be all she understood about it; she was sweating in a boxy, woollen men's business jacket with tarnished brass buttons and a crinkled satin skirt which bunched unflatteringly around her hips.

“Nothing,” said Elza, tall and poised, looking at a spot somewhere in the distance, her hands cupped together in front of her as if she were posing for a painting. “It's over.”

“Already? Just like that?”

“What, you want to mingle? Absorb the mood for a bit?”

“It just seems rather quick and undignified, is all I'm sayin'. Just dump her in there like that. And that whole last part didn't seem to have anything to do with her. It's much more impersonal than I imagined.”

“It was short because this was only the burial,” Elza continued to look away, suddenly dedicating a lot of attention to adjusting the already pristine collar of her dress. “We've skipped the vigil and the service. And that last part is called The Lord's Prayer, it's not meant to be about her.”

“What?! Why?” Claire almost began to raise her voice but stopped herself once Elza turned, one eyebrow raised, giving her a look of warning.

“Please, don't make me explain who the Lord is again. We've been trying to do that for almost two thousand years and we keep finding new ways to disagree on it.”

“No, why haven't I been told there was more than this?” Claire's voice turned into a sharp, angry whisper, rich with saliva. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I would have wanted to go to that...” she paused, mouthing the word silently to herself before carefully pronouncing it, “...vigil?”

“That's a social event,” said Elza. “Nether Leftshaw is a small town. Most people here probably know that Shrink goes - used to go - to some prestigious boarding school, but not much more. It's only natural that they'd be curious and ask a lot of questions, and we stand out quite a bit as is. With how good we are at lying, it's a miracle we didn't uncover ourselves as soon as we stepped off the train.”

Claire picked a patch of dry grass to glare at. Elza's use of 'we' while she clearly meant 'you' felt patronizing. Elza had grown up in the Muggle world and had no problems navigating it. More importantly, though, she was irritatingly good with people. While it is said that most, when presented with a glass filled only halfway, would see it as either half-full or half-empty, Elza was the type of person who would probably quickly find others to bond with over the unrealised potential of all this proverbial glassware and somehow end up getting everyone a free refill. She could have easily attended any of those social functions alone without a single issue, and trying to avoid outright saying it only made it more obvious.

Claire felt bile rising. “You could have at least told me about it beforehand.”

Elza turned away without a reply, taking interest in what not even the greatest believer in the glass being half-full could have called a crowd. The sparse gathering was now dissipating, most of the attendees radiating almost insultingly apparent relief; a few were fanning themselves with their hats and a man had already unbuttoned his shirt halfway. Several rowdy young children, who bore a visible sibling resemblance to Shrink and who all had the exact same haircut, looked like they had a very foggy idea of why they were there in the first place; they were beginning to play some sort of a game which seemed to consist of roughly pinching and slapping each other and then giggling. Shrink had been a middle child of seven, although, quite embarrassingly, neither Elza nor Claire could remember where exactly in that middle she fell.

Mrs Inskip, Shrink's mother, a robust, dark-haired woman with a red face, was blowing her nose into a greyed handkerchief while being awkwardly patted on the back by the burly, moustached Mr Inskip. He was slowly but firmly directing her towards the main gate, her dragging feet passively protesting. He glanced back as if to say goodbye to the premises; then, for the briefest of moments, his eyes landed on Claire and Elza, his jaw clenched in an expression of hostility. Any doubts or regrets Elza might have had over missing out on the better part of the funeral ceremonies died under his stare.

Elza watched the couple plod their way towards the exit before disappearing through it as the sounds of slap'n'pinch from the other side of the gate died out. A long silence fell upon the two girls as they looked anywhere but at each other. Just across the street from the cemetery, in front of a cheap and dirty restaurant, a young waiter was ruining the seriousness of the mood by whistling off key and lazily dragging around some plastic garden chairs which protested loudly against the pavement.

Claire took off her pillbox – heavens knew how and where she had acquired it – and began absentmindedly wringing it in her hands. Her hair was short, brushy, and a faded flamingo pink.

“I see you decided on a hat today. That's very nice,” offered Elza in a calm, controlled tone, diplomatically avoiding any comments on the ugly item itself.

“Yeah,” Claire shrugged as her eyes curiously scanned the surroundings. Squinting in the sunlight and fidgeting uncomfortably in her oddly assembled Muggle outfit, she watched the few parked cars, apparently still somewhat fascinated by the very idea of them. “Didn't, uh, wanna distract from the purpose today, I s'pose,” she mumbled. “Time and place for everything an' all.”  
“Fun colour,” Elza observed. Another shrug came and another thick pause ensued, once again disturbed only by the whistling waiter from across the street, who had switched to an even worse tune. “It suits you,” Elza tried again. “Very feminine,” she over-enunciated the last bit in an attempt to show she wasn't being sarcastic. She wasn't so sure it was working.

Claire, seemingly very dedicated to ridding her hat of any semblance of shape, shrugged once more without a word and shook her sweaty hairdo out. A few drops hit Elza's face in the process and she had to actively put great effort into not visibly recoiling.

“Oh, come on, Claire, you're not seriously gonna pout over this?” she huffed. It came out colder and rougher than she had meant it to; however, she had a feeling it was still better than trying to explain why two witches even showing their faces at a Catholic funeral had been pushing it. Besides, Claire seemed adamant to make this day even more difficult than it had to be. “Missing out on soggy food, awkwardness, and some clammy handshakes?” said Elza. “You said it yourself, the whole thing's impersonal. We've said our farewells from a respectful distance, the rest is just little embellishments to make the Muggles think they're feeling better.”

Claire was far from placated. She didn't know what aggravated her more; the fact that Elza felt free to casually make decisions for both of them like she knew what was best, or that she was, very annoyingly, most likely in the right.

“Would have been nice if I had had a say,” she grumbled.

“A say?” Elza frowned.

“Yeah. Would have been lovely if someone had asked for my opinion on the matter.”

“Huh. Funny how you didn't fight for a say when you left it up to me to organize this entire trip,” Elza crossed her arms at her chest, failing to conceal the bitterness in her tone. “I don't seem to remember getting so much as a word from you since... then. Even your family sent a polite owl.”

“Not like you sent me anything either!” Claire snapped. She caught herself involuntarily mirroring Elza's stance and willed her arms to uncross themselves, feeling betrayed by them. It was as if even her own body seemed to be on Elza's side.

“I was waiting to hear from you!”

“And I from you!”

“Hah!” exclaimed Elza. “Good to know you're gonna sit on your arse and wait around while I do all the work, but that I can count on you to absolutely burst with constructive criticism once all's already been done!”

“She was my friend too, you know!” Claire spat out. “I'd like to think I have the right to...”

“She was just as much my friend as she was yours,” Elza interrupted. “Did you stop to think for a moment that maybe I wasn't particularly eager to run around making arrangements and booking tickets all on my own after receiving the news? Not all of us get the luxury of wallowing in our emotions whenever we feel like it!”

“Well,” said Claire, looking up at Elza with a mocking sneer, “it's not like you had to. You could have just Apparated us.”

Immediately, Elza froze mid-motion, eyes wide open and mouth a barely visible line, looking like she had stopped breathing and turned into a beautiful, yet strangely startled-looking statue. As she watched blood drain from her friend's face, Claire realized that she had done it.

“Good luck with this school year, Claire. I'll see you on the train,” said Elza quietly, spun around and marched towards the gate in long steps.

Two strong feelings washed over Claire instantly, the first one being deep regret. The second one was icy cold realisation that she had no means of finding her way out of Nether Leftshaw and travelling back home by herself.

“Hey!” she called after Elza. “Hey, wait! Elza, please!”

Just short of reaching the exit, Elza halted, but made no move to turn around.

“I, err...” Claire hesitated, unsure what to say next or whether any words could salvage the situation. “I can buy you coffee,” was the first thing that came to her mind. “Take it as a thank you for bringing me here.”

A moment or two of silence passed. Elza's shoulders went rigid, but she stayed put.

“You have no Muggle money,” she said coldly. 

“I guess I'll have to borrow some from you,” replied Claire hastily.

“So, what you're saying is, I'll buy myself coffee as a sign of your good will.”

“I s'pose so. Yes.”

For a few very long seconds, Elza remained in her place, seemingly thinking something over.

“I'm hungry,” she finally spoke in a quiet, even voice.

“You'll buy yourself lunch too,” Claire hurried to add while rushing forwards to catch up with her friend before she could change her mind.

Elza looked deep in thought for another moment. “Alright,” she said as she finally turned around. She was rubbing an eye but quickly made herself stop. “The dust in this town,” she added before quickly looking away and focusing intently on the small restaurant which radiated heat and grease at them from across the street. The whistling waiter, startled by the attention and suddenly feeling incredibly self-aware, ceased his performance and hurriedly escorted inside the last of the chairs before hiding behind a row of rotisserie chickens in the window.

* * *

Soon enough, Claire found herself tugging at the faded chequered tablecloth, trying to use it to conceal the rolls on her midriff as the waistband of her skirt dug into it while she sat. The table Elza had chosen for them was positioned nearest to the large, street-facing window. This, despite the streets being nearly completely empty, made Claire feel very conscious of the fact that her hair was stupidly glued flat to her head, her jacket had developed dark stains in the armpit area, and sitting down made her thighs look like hams. Even more unnervingly, the spot was overlooked by the most disturbing mechanical contraption; from what she understood, it served to roast whole chickens in the most visually horrific way the designer had been able to come up with, carcasses slowly spinning on creaking metal rods, displayed from all angles for some sort of morbid entertainment of both the passers-by and the patrons of the establishment.

Elza, meanwhile, looked perfectly within her zone of comfort. She stood at the bar and delicately played with the ends of her hair, smiling politely while allowing the previously whistling waiter the privilege of chatting her up. The restaurant's sole present employee, who was blond, had acne, and looked like he was made entirely out of barely connected joints, appeared completely transfixed by her. He fumbled around, spilling things and knocking them over, a dumb grin not once leaving his face.

The first word that would often come to Claire's mind when describing Elza would be 'striking', though she'd usually swat it away as it didn't seem quite right. In Claire's opinion, striking people would have to possess some unusual, outstandingly beautiful characteristic, like stunning, amethyst-coloured eyes or perfect porcelain skin; they were not supposed to have common, straight, light-brown hair and ordinary brown eyes like Elza did. In fact, save for her height, no individual feature of Elza's stood out one bit, but somehow they had all decided to come together in an assemblage of infuriatingly excellent proportions. This, coupled with the fact that Elza was most aware of this advantage and milked it shamelessly whenever possible, made Claire sure that some women existed exclusively for the purpose of making other women feel insecure.

“I thought I only asked for some extra sugar,” she lifted her eyebrows in confusion as Elza returned to their table and placed a heavily loaded tray on it.

“Sure, here you go,” said Elza, appearing to be in a much more cheerful mood, making an energetic gesture towards a glass dispenser as she quickly and methodically distributed various food items between the two of them. She was on her second refill of coffee and it was showing. “But Eric also said we absolutely had to try the bacon butty if we hadn't, and he offered it on the house since we're not from around here. I thought you might be hungry too, so I took him up on it.”

“Eric?” asked Claire flatly, and they both looked towards the bar. Eric, who, thankfully, seemed too smitten to detect anything at all unusual about the pair, gave them a goofy smile and a cheerful wave.

“Yeah, that's his name. Then, since he mentioned bacon, I naturally thought of eggs, and I just mentioned how funny it was that I just got a hankering for them when breakfast hours are long over, to which he said that there was no reason pretty girls should be denied eggs at any time of day; his uncle owns the place, you know, and it's been empty all day anyway, so he swore it was no trouble at all. I tried to pay, but he was having none of it. He even said that having eggs without the sausage was absolutely pointless, so he threw that in as well.”

“Did he,” said Claire, stirring her lemonade and slowly growing just as sour as it was.

“He felt obliged to add the raspberry jam tarts simply because it's his nan's home-made raspberry jam. He said that there was no way we should be allowed to leave Nether Leftshaw without trying it, it's a matter of local pride.”

“Well, if Eric said so.”

“Incredible how hospitable people in these small towns can be, right? He even asked if we were in the mood for chicken because he could take down one of those,” Elza casually pointed her fork at the terrifying rotating poultry device, “but I told him we simply couldn't trouble him that much. It would be a little excessive, after all.”

“A bit, yes,” said Claire.

“He begged me to let him pack one up for us to go, though, and I'm not sure if I can get out of that one, so we may have to take a chicken with us. But don't worry, I'll carry it; you must be tired after everything today,” added Elza generously before finally stuffing some eggs into her mouth, for which Claire thanked whichever higher force might have been out there, even if it was the Lord.

The food was only alright – Claire found the bacon butty especially disappointing – but, tired and starving, both girls inhaled their meals without pausing for conversation. Once finished, they leaned back in their chairs, Claire feeling a bit drowsy and pondering whether there was a chance to sneakily pop a button or six open to get some relief in the abdomen area. A long silence settled upon them, disturbed only by the metallic creaking of the chicken-roasting contraption. This time, however, the pause was a much less uncomfortable one, the awkwardness significantly dulled by the full stomachs. After clearing their table, then returning to wipe it and ask if they needed anything else for about eight times, Eric had finally decided to withdraw to the bar area and settle for wiping some already dry glasses while peering at Elza from behind the counters with an occasional crash or thump coming from his direction. Had it not been for the gloomy purpose of their outing, it may have even made for a not entirely unpleasant afternoon, Claire thought.

“We're never in touch during the summer that much,” spoke Elza suddenly. She was looking through the window caked with dust. A thin, but very welcome shadow spread through it and onto the surface between them. Not too far away, murky clouds were beginning to gather and offer some relief from the unpleasant sunlight.

“Huh?” said Claire a bit stupidly, her thoughts made sluggish by food.

“I guess we're always busy doing our own thing,” Elza added. Claire had to stifle another small pang of annoyance. Not only did Elza seem to have an entire other social life outside of school, but she considered it to be so normal that she assumed that everyone else did as well. “Even if Shrink were... still here,” Elza swallowed slightly, but then continued without faltering, “I probably wouldn't have written to her until a few days before school. I s'pose that's why it almost doesn't feel like she's gone at all. I half expect to see her on the station.”

That was the first time that day either of them had directly talked about Shrink, and Claire wasn't so sure she was up to it so soon after... so soon. All drowsiness instantly disappeared, replaced by a cold, dull dread and an urge to retreat from the conversation. “I s'pose that's what it means when they say something hasn't hit you yet,” she shrugged, saying the most neutral thing she could think of, even though all of her knowledge about being hit by anything stemmed from having grown up with an older brother.

Elza, on the other hand, seemed to ignore the non-committal nature of Claire's reply on purpose. She had already perked up a bit, and it looked like she had been holding back for a while, waiting for a chance to talk. “Have you seen the newspapers?” she asked.

“Only the _Prophet_ ,” said Claire. Her mother had saved several issues of different papers for her, just in case she'd want to look at them or hold onto them, but Claire had felt a strong repulsion at the idea, preferring to chuck them all into a corner of her closet and try not to think about them.

As if this were the answer she had been hoping for, Elza eagerly dug around her purse for a few seconds, then fished out a pretty, apple-green notebook with hard covers and a gold ribbon bookmark. It opened at a place between blank pages where several newspaper clippings were stuck in. She scooted a bit closer and leaned in as she put the notebook between Claire, who felt like she had just walked into a trap, and herself, holding an empty page up on one side and slightly hovering over the clipped articles on the other, shielding them with her body. Claire soon understood why; the pictures in them were of the regular, moving kind, and not the eerily static Muggle images.

She was slightly relieved that the top one was the small article from the _Daily Prophet_ which she had already seen; the title read 'Witch, 17, Found Dead; Ministry Suspects Foul Play' and had only the roughest outline of the incident, without a name or any personal details. Over a half of it, which in this case meant two lines, was a non-specific statement by a Ministry representative about how the case was under investigation, accompanied by a picture of said representative in official robes. A couple of phrases were underlined, quite obviously by Elza, as she was the only person Claire knew who would underline with the help of a ruler. Secretly, Claire was rather glad that the article was so brief; even the few short lines were enough to fill her stomach with a thick, dark heaviness and her mind with the kind of gruesome imagery that was sure to pop up in her dreams.

Elza, however, appearing much more in her element now that she had latched onto something tangible to work on, seemed so focused and alert that one could have easily mistaken her expression for one of good humour. Claire had barely had time to brace herself any further before she was impatiently gestured at to keep reading.

The next few articles were from smaller papers Claire hadn't heard of, and all openly speculated Death Eater activity, but none focused on the victim and most used the case to call out the Ministry on being vague in their comments and passive in their actions. Each of them featured the same kind of markings Elza had made in the first one. Then came a tiny, but far more dramatic _Quibbler_ article titled 'Young Woman Stricken By Sudden Death – What ARE They Putting In Our Chocolate Frogs?'. Elza had left this one alone, although, by the looks of the paper, it too had been held and read multiple times.

Underneath was another _Prophet_ piece.

 

####  DEATH OF STUDENT CONFIRMED AS MURDER, MINISTRY SAYS 

_Violet Marianne Inskip, aged 17, whose body was found Monday on the dirt road near the town of Nether Leftshaw, had been killed by magical means, according to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Tracing tests confirmed that the Killing Curse had been used in the immediate area at the time of death. Further investigation of the scene gave no evidence on any suspects or the motive for the murder, and the Auror Office hasn't reported having any leads._

_This has been one of numerous death or disappearance cases since the beginning of the year, many of which have been suspected or proven to be results of the Dark Rebellion. However, the officials made no statements on the possibility of Death Eater involvement in Inskip's death._

 

The text wrapped around a familiar picture of Shrink in which she was smiling shyly at the camera and squinting in the sun, every so often giving a bashful wave, her eyes barely visible behind her thick, dark fringe. It had been taken about half a year ago; the Prophet had been covering the last school Quidditch match of Hazel Shugg, a Slytherin Keeper, before she was to leave Hogwarts early after having been offered a chance to play professionally. None of the three had been much interested in Quidditch, but Elza, being a Prefect and somewhat friendly with Shugg, had felt obligated to attend out of politeness and made Claire and Shrink tag along. The photograph had originally featured all three of them, but was cropped for the purpose of this article; an arm which was undeniably Elza's could still be seen draped over Shrink's shoulder. Claire put the clipping under the others, carefully covering the smiling face. She wondered whether she still had a copy of it somewhere at home.

 The next article was cut out of something called _The British Journal of Magical Science_.

  

#### ADVANTAGES OF EARLY ADOPTION OF BASIC MAGICAL THEORY PRINCIPLES IN EDUCATION AND ITS INFLUENCE ON COGNITIVE DEVELOPMENT AND COMPETENCY IN APPLIED MAGIC 

_by Elza Polyak_

  

“Erm, that one wasn't supposed to be in there,” said Elza quickly as the article was snatched from Claire's hands and vanished into Elza's purse.

The second thing that would often come to Claire's mind when thinking of Elza was 'please, at least be stupid', but she'd usually be quickly reminded that there was no justice in this world. Before Claire had the chance to settle into another grumpy silence, however, the dam broke.

  “Well, now you know everything I do,” said Elza in an almost inappropriately chirpy tone. “What do you think?”

Claire stared blankly. “Think about what?”

Elza's tenacious expression flickered for a second, but she recovered quickly. “About the inconsistencies. The things that don't sound right or make sense. I've underlined all the ones I've noticed, but feel free to add your own. Here, look again if you need-”

“No, no, I'm good, I'm good,” replied Claire.

“The press seems to agree on the time and the place it happened,” Elza continued. “so, at least for the moment, I'd be alright with taking those as facts. What bothers me is, why? I saw the road where it happened from the train window when we were arriving,” Claire twitched at how casually Elza brought this up, “It's pretty dead, but I suppose it was close enough to her town that it sort of makes sense.”

“Elza...”

“Here's the thing, though - what would someone else, a witch or a wizard, be doing on that road, in the middle of nowhere?”

“She's... was... Muggle-born, Elsa. There've been plenty of ordinary folk who've... you know. It doesn't seem to take much these days,” said Claire.

“You're right,” Elza continued with even more vigour, “but Nether Leftshaw is quite a long way for a Death Eater to go just to off a regular girl who hadn't been bothering anyone. You'd think that they'd have better things to do than go out of their way to waste resources on someone like Shrink.”

Elza realized that she got carried away a moment too late. Claire's expression had already darkened at the distasteful remarks, and she pulled away from the table a little as if to distance herself from Elza's misplaced enthusiasm.

“Look, sorry... you know I didn't mean it like that,” Elza continued. “Claire, look at me. You know I didn't, I swear. Just, this doesn't sound right. You see it too, don't you? She never got involved with anything crazy. She kept to herself. She was the type to cry over having to kill parasites in Herbology! She wasn't in anyone's way, and especially not the Death Eaters'. And if not them, then who? Why would anyone deliberately seek her out? It doesn't make sense, and everyone has been all too happy to write her off as just another victim of what's going on now... It can't be just me! Right? You see what I mean, don't you?” Elza was compensating for her hushed tone with exaggerated hand gestures as if to make sure that her words will still have impact.

For as long as Claire had known her, Elza had always furiously attacked anything she deemed a task or a problem, gripping it with her teeth and not letting go until she would shake all life out of it. Claire had fully expected to see that same fervour in Elza's face now, but her friend's expression was, instead, one of panicked, pleading desperation. Claire felt another wave of guilt as her mind conjured images of Elza sitting on her bed in her tiny apartment, feverishly going over any piece of information regarding Shrink's death. Elza hiding it from her parents to spare them the fear that would make them want to pull their daughter out of school for safety's sake. Elza being too scared to share any of it with her Muggle friends so as not to risk revealing too much. Elza having to deal with all of the pain and loss completely alone. Elza making sure to think of Claire making it to the funeral, even though it posed a great risk for both of them, finding a way to get them there, and even supplying Claire with a sandwich on the train.

And Claire hadn't even written.

“I see what you mean,” Claire lied.

That seemed to have been all it took. Elza leaned back in her chair slightly, her shoulders relaxing, and the grateful relief in her mood so palpable that the deluge that ensued sounded almost as if it had been holding itself back in anticipation of this exact moment. Gigantic, loud drops exploded in contact with the dirty glass of their window, and the world outside seemed much darker, all colour of the impending sunset washed away by the rain.

The first, distant sound of thunder disproportionately startled Eric, who then loudly knocked over a glass salt shaker which shattered into pieces on the floor. The surviving metal tip, however, rolled all the way under Elza's chair, upon which Eric seemed ready for the Earth to swallow him whole.

* * *

The sky had gotten nearly completely dark, the air significantly cooler, and the bag containing a cardboard box with a hot rotisserie chicken swayed in Elza's hand.

“Where to now?” said Claire.

“Behind those bins over there,” Elza pointed to an alley a little further down the wet street.

“Where does that lead?”

“To the space of some three square feet behind the bins. I'll Apparate us from there.”

“Wait, what?” Claire was shocked. “But, but, you hate it! And you made us come by train! How can-”

“We can take the train back too, if you've grown so fond,” said Elza with a smirk.

Claire sighed as Elza took her hand. “When I get my licence...”

Elza wasn't listening anymore. Her eyes were closed and her lips pressed tightly together, and Claire noticed that her fingers felt clammy. She opened her mouth in an attempt to bring it up, but just as she did, the world became black, and the last thing she felt before the familiar, all-engulfing pressure was Elza sliding the handle of the plastic bag onto her wrist.


	3. Head Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stressed and overwhelmed Elza tries her best to stay positive while keeping up with her many responsibilities and is rewarded with quite an unusual end to her day.

The Hogwarts Express rattled with excitement right before set-off. The rattle was, of course, unnecessary, as the train was engineless and powered entirely by magic, but it provided the passengers with enough background noise to deafen out final parental warnings and give a comforting backdrop to anxious back-to-school conversations which were already beginning within. Once the last of the baggage was loaded and every student had found their place in a compartment, the train swayed a bit, clattered artificially, and then departed.

A plump, red-cheeked boy with a bowl cut, who hadn't even gotten all of his mother's lipstick off before he begun to make friends with the other first-years in his compartment, had his attention stolen by the treats trolley he spied through the door. He took a tentative look at a small pouch of galleons his parents had fastened to his belt; it was quite a handsome sum, one that could have easily lasted him a semester, and he knew he was to save at least some of it for the expenses which were sure to present themselves at school. Then again, he thought, fiddling with the pouch's fastening, he was told to make sure to be nice to others, and he knew well enough that his parents would easily send more if he were to write and ask for it. He surveyed the bunch of chattering children over his shoulder on his way out of the compartment. Yes. This would be quite a good time to solidify the good first impression he'd made.

"I... I'll take the lot of it," he stammered to the elderly witch with the trolley, dramatically extending a fist full of coins, blood rushing to his cheeks in excitement.

"I don't fucking think so, mate," said an unamused voice behind him. "There's other people on this train besides you, y'know. Howsabout you don't be a selfish little wanker and let someone else have a go as well?"

The voice belonged to an older girl with a pale, pudgy face and short, cherry red, straw-like hair. She was scowling like she had smelled something rotten and acting like that something was him.

"Fuck's sake, Claire," said another girl, taller and altogether much more pleasant-looking, who had just walked up to them and who was already in her school uniform. "Don't go scaring the first years if you're not the one who’s gonna wrangle 'em! Hi there," she turned to him, "I'm Elza. What's your name?"

"Q-Quentin," said Quentin, his cheeks quickly beginning to pale in uneven splotches. He was wringing the money pouch in his chubby hands.

"Nice name," said Elza with a smile. "Want to treat your friends?"

Quentin nodded nervously, unsure if this was the right answer.

"Attaboy. Claire's right, though; there's lots of us here, and others might want to buy sweets too, so tell you what. How about you give this here nice lady -" Elza gestured towards the older witch with the trolley, who smiled at them – "the amount you're willing to spend to hold it for you during the trip. Tell your friends that whatever they choose to come and get next is on you, and she'll take it off of the sum. When we get to school, you can just take back any change that's left. Sound good?"

Quentin nodded again, visibly relieved.

"Good," said Elza. "Have any problems, tell me or anyone you see with this badge," she pointed to a silver badge with a debossed letter P on her chest. "Now, don't make your friends wait!"

Mustering a grateful smile, Quentin jiggled his way back into his compartment. Seconds later, loud cheers erupted from behind the door.

“Fuck's sake, Claire,” repeated Elza, rolling her eyes. She tried to decide whether she presently had it in her to tell Claire off, and, within the second, decided to drop it. The long day ahead of them was only beginning; she could feel the first throbs of a headache at the sides of her head, and she'd have to pick her battles.

Claire, however, had her attention captured by something else entirely.

“Prefect?” she asked incredulously, staring at Elza's badge. “No way! No way on Earth!” She sounded shocked, but, to Elza's relief, didn't appear gleeful over the news. “But, but then, who's-?”

“Lily Evans,” said Elza.

“Oh. I see. Well. You were still robbed if you ask me. She's good, but not as good as you. Anyone can see that,” said Claire with a surprising certainty, finally looking up from the badge.

A bit caught off guard, Elza turned her head to escape Claire's look and chose herself a good spot to fixate on while not looking silly – the glass panels in the door of Quentin's compartment. Unfortunately, Claire seemed to have had a similar thought process, because she did the same and the two girls ended up making awkward eye contact in the reflection.

Elza sighed. “I'm sure she'll do great. I hope she does,” and she truly meant it. “This way I might have more time for other things.”

“Ah. Well, you do have quite a bit going on.”

“Speaking of, there's Slug Club tonight after the feast.”

“Oh, man, on the first night? Really? You'd think Slughorn would show some mercy.”

“I'd take it you wouldn't want to tag along and keep me company?” Elza asked.

Claire could think of at least a dozen other things she'd rather do than go to a meeting of a rather snooty club she wasn't even a member of, but she could tell a hand was being extended to her, and she still hadn't stopped feeling some guilt over the events at the funeral. “Eh, sure. Whatever. Who needs rest anyway.”

Elza gave a weak little smile. “Thanks,” she said to the reflection, before turning away as if to leave, and then stopped and looked back. “You gonna be alright on your own?”

“Pfft,” Claire rolled her eyes and walked towards the back of the train.

* * *

Elza made sure to check her reflection once more in the door of the Prefects' carriage. Satisfactory hair day. Clean badge. One stray eyebrow hair that couldn't be helped no matter what and that was going to bug her for the rest of the day. 

She let the muscle memory take over and gave the reflection a toothy smile. Too much; everyone already knew about Shrink. It would be indecent. People would think it weird. She relaxed her face a bit. This looked too grave; she didn't want to drag the mood down or invite pity either. She tried on a couple more expressions before deciding on the one that felt the most appropriate and then stepped in.

The inside of the Prefects' carriage was a mass of black and grey fabric; while most other students had the luxury of remaining in their street clothes until the very last second, it was expected of Prefects to be easily recognizable throughout the trip, should they be needed.

“Elza!” several voices at once shouted cheerfully. Elza remained in the door frame for a second and displayed her carefully dosed smile, directed at no one in particular, letting the room absorb her presence. Another second and a few clusters of Prefects were eagerly rearranging, scooting around to free some room for her. Boxes of sweets and other snacks popped up, ready and pleading for her attention. For a moment, as she stood over her schoolmates and regarded these actions like a benevolent queen, she felt that, perhaps, she could get over not being Head Girl a bit more quickly than she had thought possible. A tiny bit of tension left her temples.

Leaving a few faces looking mildly disappointed – this was unavoidable, sadly – she decided on a seat between Nathan Wittingham, her fellow seventh year Hufflepuff Prefect, and Remus Lupin of Gryffindor. Nathan was a jovial, burly boy with a ruddy complexion, easy to work with and perfectly alright to talk to, but somewhat uninteresting in both looks and personality. Remus, on the other hand, was sort of cute – slight, studious, chronically tired-looking, but reasonably intelligent and able to carry a complex conversation. He was, admittedly, fairly lenient as a Prefect, but this only meant that he lacked any authority that would clash with her own; Elza made a quick mental note to consider possibly trying something with him in the near future. They exchanged polite hellos, and her eyes fell on his silver badge. He had also been cheated out of a title this year, said a small, stinging voice from somewhere deep within Elza, but she quickly smothered this sentiment.

Seated across from them were the Head Boy and Head Girl themselves, their fingers intertwined, and, to Elza's relief, neither of them looked especially smug or self-satisfied. This would make it much easier to be genuinely happy for them, she thought.

“Goodness, Elza, we've all heard,” Lily Evans leaned in and said very softly, but the murmur in the carriage still died down as if on cue, and most heads turned towards random spots on the walls in failed attempts to be discrete about listening in. “I'm so sorry. Violet was... she was so nice. I can't believe she's gone. How have you been doing?”

“You know... one day at a time,” Elza said, and several Prefects sighed and compassionately nodded their heads, confirming that this had, indeed, been the correct thing to say. “Not much to be done but try to keep it together, I suppose.” She knew that people usually didn't want to be reminded of the deceased too much, nor did they want to hear about someone's grieving process. They didn't ask how you were in order to really find out; they wanted to be told that you were alright, and would be moving on and doing better soon. People needed this so they could feel that, if something similar were to befall them personally, they might have it in them to be alright at the end of it as well. Elza firmly believed that it was important to give them that.

“You are so strong. I don't know how you do it. I'd be an absolute mess,” Lily replied. To her left, James Potter was nodding along approvingly. Elza couldn't boast more than a cordial, superficially friendly relationship with him; he was prone to showboating and certainly much too chaotic for her to grow truly fond of over the years. She had no idea what Lily saw in him, but she had to admit that he'd matured noticeably since the two got together, and was now agreeable enough to share a room with without having to suppress the desire to roll one's eyes.

“I'm far from being alone in this,” Elza sighed. “There's a war going on, and... well. Nobody here needs to be reminded of what that means for each of us,” she looked around, and some of the faces fell a bit. Most of the people in the carriage at least knew someone who knew someone who had disappeared or been killed. During the past couple of years, about half a dozen students had left Hogwarts after being called into the Headmaster's office regarding a “family emergency” - code that meant something had happened to somebody close to them, or that their parents were pulling them out of school in fear for their safety. “It's the only thing any of us can do, really. Keep moving and do our best,” she added, deciding to throw in a fitting, encouraging little smile, which every face in the carriage instantly mirrored. As intended, everyone seemed to have understood it as the unspoken signal that this particular conversation has ended, and the murmur reestablished itself immediately.

Elza sat back and let people engage her in chatter – wow, she'd gotten so tanned over the summer! did she travel anywhere? how does she endure the heat in the big city? what is going to be her strategy in studying for NEWTs? – Remus had read her article in the Journal and had actually saved a copy, which she found especially flattering and attributed him another point on her mental scoreboard. At one point, Lily ate a chocolate frog and had a bit of chocolate left by her lip; Elza caught her eye and motioned towards her own face, helping Lily discretely remedy the situation. Nathan had vacationed in France and said he had a souvenir with Elza's name on it, but wanted to keep it a surprise until he was able to let her have it.

“Alright now, we've all caught up, and it's time to do some actual work,” Lily said, but no one but Elza seemed to notice; most were still deeply engrossed in conversation, and James looked like he was using his hands to reenact a Quidditch match to several Prefects who were willing to listen. Lily sighed and gave Elza a _he's hopeless_ look.

Elza straightened up a bit and raised her hand high. “Over here, please!”, she said. The talking petered out within seconds.

“Erm, as I was saying,” resumed Lily, shooting Elza a confused, but grateful smile, “unfortunately, we are at that point where we need to get on with some planning for this year. First of all, to all our new Prefects – welcome! We hope that access to a slightly nicer bathroom will be able to compensate for the absolute torment that awaits you,” several people giggled, while a few of the fifth-years looked genuinely scared. “Your first and most important responsibility is to serve as an example to your housemates. Make sure you behave the way you'd expect them to, and that's half of the work already done. As for the more tangible responsibilities, you will find your copy of the Prefect's Rule Book laid out in your dormitories tonight along with your belongings, so I suggest you study those if you want me to spare you from any more annoying speeches,” a few more giggles rang throughout the carriage.

“As for the part that's our job right now,” James chimed in, “it's no more than our plain old patrol schedule-”

“Which was anything but plain until last year, mate,” interrupted Felix Dunder, seventh year, Ravenclaw.

“Oh, it was a nightmare,” said Lily. “Misunderstandings, clubs conflicting with duties, issues with Filch-” the group groaned in unison, “-so let's take a moment to count our lucky stars and thank Elza and her excellent Protean Charm for providing us with self-synchronizing timetables.”

There was a brief applause and even a couple of cheerful hoots, which Elza gladly soaked in while giving her best _flattered, but not conceited_ nod. As Lily and James explained how the timetables worked and how to use the detailed system of rows and columns, a stack of enchanted parchment was passed around the carriage. Elza noticed that her copy was pleasantly cool to the touch, but found herself placing her palm on it an additional couple of times, just to be sure it was staying that way.

* * *

After the meeting, Felix Dunder stopped her just as she was exiting the Prefect's carriage.

“Hey,” he said softly, putting his hand on her shoulder. Elza almost flinched but managed to get herself under control in time. “You look good,” he added.

“I try,” replied Elza.

Felix leaned in as if to kiss her, giving her only a second to react. She recoiled.

“Not here?” he asked. “Ah, you're right. Sorry. Dunno what I was thinking, honestly. With everything you must be going through and... bad idea. It's just that, it's been a while, and... how about tonight? After the feast?”

“I have Slug Club,” said Elza. “Listen, while we're at it, I sorta wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Oh?”

“Thank you for writing so much during the summer – sorry I haven't been replying very often, by the way, you know how things get, and then everything with- anyway, your letters left me with a feeling that we weren't completely on the same page here, and I feel a great need to apologize-”

“Apologize?”

“Yes. For leading you on. I remember telling you back at the beginning that I wasn't really looking for anything long-term, but I understand how that could have easily given anyone the wrong idea. What I meant by it was, I _really_ wasn't looking for anything long term. Please, believe me when I say I had no intention whatsoever of wasting your time. I feel absolutely dreadful about not being clear enough.”

“Err...” Felix looked confused.

“If anything, I am very grateful to you,” Elza continued. “I clearly remember us having that conversation at the end of the year about going our separate ways and being friends. If you hadn't written this often and... requested _pictures_ , I might have never realized how piss-poor I must be at explaining these things. You did me a huge favour, really. I mean, I must have been horribly vague to make you misunderstand something like that.”

“Uh... right,” Felix now seemed a bit uncomfortable.

“Million times sorry. To put it better, when I said 'separate', I meant 'not together', and when I said 'friends', I meant 'platonic friends, ones who don't snog'.”

“Ever?”

“Ever. Sorry. I truly feel like absolute crap. I hope you forgive me.”

“I... guess?” said Felix, still struggling.

“You're an angel. I have no excuse for my behaviour. I really, really should have been much clearer about where your expectations should lie.”

“Just to be sure... where is that?”

“Nowhere.”

“Oh.”

A pause ensued, during which Felix seemed to process this. Suddenly, a look of understanding crossed his face.

“Oh. Oh! I see. This is about Violet, isn't it?”

The sides of Elza's head pulsed with violent pain again, but she knew an out when she saw one.

“Yes,” she said. “That's it. Yes, it is.”

“Ah, I'm so sorry,” said Felix. “I should have known. I was such an insensitive prick! And you must be having a wicked rough time. Makes sense. Sorry.”

“Not at all,” Elza said.

“No, really, I get it. Uh, well, friends it is, I suppose. Snogging not included,” he added with the pride of a toddler who managed to fit in all of the colourful shapes in their proper slots.

“Honest mistake, really, anyone could have made it,” said Elza.

“Er, so, I s'pose I'll see you around then!” Felix slowly backed away. “Friends!” he waved his hand awkwardly, shuffling backwards towards one of the glass carriage doors. “Anybody give you a hard time, you come to me!”

“Will do!”

He saluted like a soldier (but used the wrong hand) before disappearing behind a door, and Elza went to get herself a chocolate frog at Quentin's expense.

* * *

“I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be clever,” said Claire while she was trying to get comfortable at their table in the Great Hall. She had been sitting on the train for the past couple of hours, and the hard, wooden bench didn't look like it was agreeing with her behind. She was noticeably cranky and Elza briefly considered relieving her of the obligation of attending Slug Club, but the mere thought of going by herself selfishly stopped the words from ever being formed in her mouth.

“He is,” Elza replied, glancing across the Hall at the Ravenclaw table. Felix Dunder caught her eye, gave an energetic wave, a thumbs-up, and mouthed the word 'friends!' with a big grin on his face, like he was revelling in some secret known only to the two of them. “Just maybe not when it comes to this,” she added.

The inky sky above them looked like a much calmer, painting-like reflection of the swirling mass of black robes in the Hall as the students were getting seated. Elza was usually very fond of this bustle and excitement before each Start of Term Feast; she hated her summers at home. Devoid of the routine she had been used to, her days would quickly grow stale and indiscernible from one another, leaving her in a hazy, dreamlike state, in which she'd feverishly attempt to challenge herself and make sense of the world by filling her time with some kind of order. After all of that, the Feast would feel like being jolted awake, given a violently refreshing shower and thrust back into a reality with a built-in structure, simple rules, and, most importantly, a clear societal hierarchy, which she was very obviously and happily near the top of.

This year, however, instead of familiarity and purpose, Elza felt as if she had stepped into her home after someone had moved every piece of furniture for just about an inch. The Hufflepuff table was quieter than usual – barely so, but enough for her to notice. Everybody who talked to her tried to make her laugh a little too much as if to check whether she was still able to. She had to laugh a little too much because it would have been rude not to match their effort. The seat on her right wasn't filled by Shrink, but by Nathan Wittingham, who was much bigger and didn't have Shrink's much laudable habit of keeping her elbows very close to her body, so he'd occasionally bump into Elza. These bumps would have usually been imperceptible, but tonight, each of them went straight to her throbbing temporal lobes. An awful, dirty, fleeting thought popped up in her mind – that Shrink's absence was probably far more noticeable than her presence had ever been – and she shook her hair back a little as if she had been hoping to physically shrug off the idea.

Thankfully, there was a welcome distraction in the form of the giant door from the Entrance Hall opening suddenly, dramatically, and loudly. Over the sea of students' heads, Elza could see Professor McGonagall's tall, pointy hat make its way down the Great Hall, instantly killing all remaining commotion. The Professor was followed by a procession of smaller figures, some of which almost completely obscured from view by the rows of seated students. The nervous tottering stopped in front of the stool, upon which the raggedy, old Sorting Hat was immediately placed.

“Were we ever this puny?” Claire smirked as the Hat was finishing its usual old song about standing united and looking out for each other through difficult times.

“I wasn't,” said Elza, who was six feet tall. Surprisingly, this resulted in a small but welcome snort of laughter escaping Claire. However, when 'Applebark, Amaryllis', a sunburnt, skinny little girl with a long, chestnut braid, was called to sit on the stool, Claire huffed, reverting to her usual grouchy self.

“What kind of a name is 'Amaryllis'? What's with all the kids being named like somebody's gran? What happened to 'Edward' and 'Susan'?”

“Seems like the more traditional names are in style,” said Elza diplomatically, but Claire's grim expression revealed that she had immediately understood what this meant. Slightly antiquated names, reminiscent of old, distinctly pure-blood naming customs, were being brought back in fashion by families trying to underline their pure-blood status, or doing their best to appear as pure-blooded as possible.

After Amaryllis had been sorted into Gryffindor, earning herself loud cheers from her new housemates, Professor McGonagall called for 'Audley, Quentin', the very one who had tried to monopolize all the sweets on the train.

“Hufflepuff!” shouted the Hat.

“Of fucking course,” muttered Claire.

Once all the first-years were sorted, and Hufflepuff received its own share of slightly frightened, wide-eyed youth, Elza noticed that the voices around the Hall had reduced to a low murmur. She looked up towards the High Table to see Headmaster Dumbledore, standing tall in dark purple, shimmery robes.

“Good evening to all,” he began in a magically augmented voice once the crowd had settled completely. “To all the new faces I see, welcome to Hogwarts, and may you come to think of it as your home. To all the old students, welcome back to another year of your education, and may each one be better than the last. “

“Before we begin our feast, there is something that I would like to say to you all. Hogwarts gaining so many young minds each year brings me great happiness, but a premature loss of but one soul brings grief which I can hardly put into words. I am very sad to say that, just recently, we have suffered one such loss,” Dumbledore paused, and Elza and Claire exchanged tense looks.

“Violet Inskip was a bright, responsible student, with nothing but the best marks in behaviour and promising academic achievements. More importantly, she was a loyal, selfless, beloved friend. In honour of miss Inskip, tragically taken from us much too soon, I ask of you to dedicate a minute of silence to her memory.”

With a sudden flutter, an arrangement of black drapes unravelled themselves on the wall behind the High table. Supporting pillars and arches of the Great Hall began to gain more solidity. The patches of black sky between them became increasingly sheer, before they dissipated into a smoky, dark mist, leaving behind nothing but the sturdy wooden structure of the walls and the ceiling.

The Hall fell completely silent, and Elza's head pounded so hard that she feared it could be heard. She fixed her eyes on her empty golden plate in an attempt to will the bright, zigzagging shapes in her sight away. A few were dancing distractingly in her peripheral vision, but one glowing line right across the centre was stubbornly refusing to move no matter how many times she blinked, and she realised that it was her own tears welling up in her eyes, reflecting candlelight and the metallic gleam of the dinnerware. When Dumbledore ended the silence by proposing a toast in Shrink's name, and the goblets in front of each student filled with drinks, Claire had to nudge her back into alertness. She drank without tasting whatever was in the goblet, and barely managed to keep it down.

* * *

The Hufflepuff common room was permanently bathed in golden light. Elza liked it best during the day, when sunlight coming through stained glass windows made her look even better than usual, but it was acceptable even now, when it was already dark. The glow of the fireplace reflected of the copper plant pots and tinted everything a very flattering, warm, caramel shade, which did great in hiding any pallor or under-eye circles one might have while addressing the first-years.

“The dormitories are here and here, girls and boys, respectively,” she gestured towards two round, glossy wooden doors. “The doors are numbered, and year one is your first door on the left, so none of you should have much trouble finding it. Understood?”

The children nodded silently, a couple of mouths dangling open. The day had done a number on them, too, thought Elza, whose headache was expanding to now include a high-pitched buzzing sound in her ears.

“As for the house rules”, she continued, “they're simple. Be good. Study hard. Help when you can. Apologize when you're wrong. Give when you have more than you need. That covers about most of it. I trust most of you already know what feels right and wrong if you think about it. Any questions, problems or doubts, tell a Prefect or a teacher.”

Nathan, who was standing beside her and nodding along, took over. “As for some more situation-specific advice, a spell called Levicorpus has been a popular prank in the past few years. It's harmless, but just in case, keep in mind the possibility of being turned upside down at any given moment when you plan what to wear under your school robes. The staircase on the second floor, near the Magical Theory classroom, moves on Monday afternoon, but most of the others are still pretty rogue, so we haven't gotten their schedules down yet.”

“What about the House Cup?” asked a blonde girl who was about half a head taller than the rest of her year.

Elza and Nathan looked at each other as if they were both reminded of something from a past life. “Oh yeah, that,” said Elza, shrugging. “You win house points for doing well. You lose them for behaving badly. I wouldn't worry about it too much if I were you. The other houses get a little passionate about the competition, so let them have it if it makes them happy. All you're left with after the end of the year is what you've done and what you've learned, so better focus on that and don't get too hung up on gems. It's just gonna stress you out.”

* * *

Bridget, Helen, Opal, Portia and Prudence, Fahad, Lavinius, Paul, Quentin, and Reuben were the names of the Hufflepuff first-years. Elza had written them down, but saw it as her duty as Prefect to have them memorized before the next morning. She would repeat the names in her mind over each white-hot, debilitating thud of her headache, attempting to drown out the pain.

She gave her compact mirror a quick glance before she and Claire would enter Slughorn's office. Eyebrow hair still out of place. Thud. Thud. Thud. _Bridget. Helen. Opal_.

“You're not going to impress Slughorn any more than you already have,” Claire rolled her eyes.

Elza pulled out a bundle of crystallised pineapple and grinned.

“You're truly disgusting,” said Claire.

Horace Slughorn's office had the entirely non-magical capability of seeming tiny at the beginning of the school year, then growing larger towards the end; this was due to the fact that each year would introduce a fresh batch of “desirables”, who would then gradually get weeded out until the professor was left only with those who truly showed promise in the delicate art of being of some use to him. Claire, despite coming from a somewhat wealthy, pure-blood family, had stopped receiving her invitations sometime during the fifth year, and would only occasionally attend in order to keep Elza company. Elza, on the other hand, who held Slughorn in very high regard, had yet to miss a single meeting.

“And there is our rising star of magical science!” announced the Potions Master loudly enough to make many heads in the room turn. Elza positively beamed at the attention. Claire wished she could sink into the ground. Slughorn quickly and ungracefully pushed his large form through the gathered group of students, and, slightly out of breath, pulled Elza into a vigorous handshake accompanied by a strong pat on the shoulder, his belly echoing the rhythm of this motion.

“My dear girl! I don't think I've ever had someone surprise me so,” Slughorn's impressive moustache danced as he spoke. “One puts in so much faith in one's students... hope and effort... one sees them thrive under one's guidance, and thinks oneself a close observer of their ability and success... and then you go and not even warn an old man before you make him choke on his tea over his copy of the _Journal_!” Slughorn only increased the strength with which he shook Elza's arm, and each pat on her shoulder elicited a thud inside her head. _Bridget. Helen. Opal_. “I always knew... but this! Prodigy, they said! First fresh blood in the field in decades, and before graduation! Nothing could have prepared me for how far my encouragement was able to get you, and how soon! One's lucky to not be in direct competition with the likes of you, Miss Polyak, I will tell you that!”

“Now, Professor, none of that, please,” said Elza, shining him a charming smirk. “That would be implying that there is such a thing as competition for the great Potions Master!”

“You!” Slughorn playfully wagged a meaty finger at her. “Oh, I can't wait to run into those crusty old gits at the board! One of mine... you truly are a danger to all of them, my girl!”

“Could this make me seem a bit less threatening?” Elza extended the crystallised pineapples. Claire, who had been entirely ignored, looked like she was holding back vomit.

Slughorn's moustache widened with his grin and then relaxed into a faux-serious expression. “I implore you to use these powers for good, Miss Polyak,” he said as the sweets disappeared somewhere in the folds of his robes. “I'm afraid not all of us are able to endure.”

“I'll keep that in mind, Professor.”

Once he had shoulder-patted another series of painful thuds into Elza's temples – _Portia, Prudence, Fahad_ – Slughorn finally left Elza and Claire in favour of mingling with some of the new students he had collected.

“Disgusting,” quipped Claire again.

“Jealous,” replied Elza, quickly sticking her tongue out at her friend.

“I can't say which is more impressive, your ability to stay composed while he slobbers all over your success or his ability to oh-so-subtly attribute it to himself. 'Thrive under one's guidance'? 'How far my encouragement got you'? Sod off. He's shameless.”

Elza barely contained her smile at Claire's protectiveness. “He’s always been a good teacher to me. If he feels good thinking he's the one to thank for this, then why not let him?” she shrugged. “I like when he acknowledges my effort and helps me out. He likes to feel accomplished and important. A smile, some pineapples, and everybody's happy.”

“Feels wrong.”

“I don't know why,” Elza shrugged again. “Feels like a perfectly fair exchange to me.”

“Ugh. I take it back. You're clearly made for each other,” said Claire grumpily, and Elza chuckled, but quickly regretted it, because it made her head pulse even more. _Lavinius, Paul, Quentin, Reuben._

Several people Elza had been friendly with and who wanted to know what Slughorn's display had all been about came over to chat. As much as Elza tried to include Claire into these conversations, it looked like Claire was determined to be a grouch and resist any social good will thrown her way. Elza decided that this had to be one of those times when she ignores Claire's attitude for her own sake; her head was starting to feel as if it was trying to kill her.

Lily Evans came to say hello and, to Elza's mild disappointment, mentioned that Remus Lupin wasn't going to attend because he hadn't been feeling well and had gone to bed early. Thud. Bridget, Helen. Slughorn announced that Regulus Black, or his family, or someone like that, had done something worth mentioning, but Elza didn't quite catch what before some of the Slytherins gave a small applause, each clap eliciting a pierce behind her eyes and a flash of bright shapes before them. _Opal_. At some point, Lily Evans went to mingle and was replaced by Diligence Pinebark of Ravenclaw. Evan Rosier of Slytherin, who had obviously been interested in being on a first-name basis with Diligence, quickly joined the conversation, dragging along his housemates, Severus Snape and Cyril Fidgette.

Snape, while not the most charismatic, was certainly very intelligent and well read, and Elza would have more than happily enjoyed a friendly relationship with him, had he not also been quite deliberately standoffish to most people. Eventually, after Elza’s multiple failed attempts to forge a friendship, he had had a very ugly and very public falling out with Lily Evans sometime in their fifth year. That was when Elza had finally decided that, maybe, there had been no use in trying any further. _Portia_. Nevertheless, even though Rosier often made her skin crawl, Elza thought that Diligence deserved a proper chance to make her own decisions in that regard, and felt that she should do her the courtesy of throwing herself on the proverbial Dungbomb that were his mates. _Prudence_.

“Snape, Fidgette,” nodded Elza. “Stop having so much fun, please. Claire is starting to feel threatened in her current position as the life of the party.”

Snape and Claire gave a derisive snort at almost exactly the same time, and Fidgette let out an awkward, high-pitched laugh, which he pathetically tried to cover up by clearing his throat. _Fahad_. Elza caught his eye for a flicker of a moment and winked at him; a rosy tint immediately invaded his cheeks and connected over the bridge of his nose. How easy.

“Polyak,” nodded Snape, “how are things in house Miscellaneous?”

Elza laughed sincerely. _Lavinius_. “No alumni of ours calling themselves the Dark Lord yet, so I’d say, so far so good! Given any thought to joining us yet? I’ve always thought yellow would make your eyes pop.” _Paul_.

Snape smirked. “You’re feeling awfully full of yourself over that article, aren’t you?”

“Thank you.”

“That was no compliment.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself! You’ll do better next time.” 

Elza glanced at Fidgette again, hoping to catch another amusing reaction, but was surprised to see that he had been looking at her intently. She felt a second or two pass, significantly exceeding the limits of what she believed to be the socially acceptable length of eye contact, but, for some odd reason, she found herself unable to look away. He had blue eyes, she noticed. A very nice, straight nose. Slightly pointy chin, and delicate, boyish features that made him look a mature fourteen rather than his age.

There was a sudden, overwhelming feeling of excitement she couldn’t quite explain, similar to the anticipation in looking forward to someone or something, but whom or what, she didn’t know. Then, a feeling of cosy warmth, the kind that felt as if she was on the brink of falling asleep, or slowly sinking into a lake of calm, tepid water. She didn’t even try to resist it; it somehow felt right, and she wanted it, she craved to fully let go and let the water do whatever, whether it would drag her to the bottom or float her away…

She snapped out of it, feeling as if a lifetime had passed. A few seconds were spent in panic, realizing she had spaced out and probably lost her composure. Cheeks glowing like embers, she looked at Claire, who was idly nursing a cup of something and didn’t seem to be witnessing or experiencing anything out of the ordinary. Fidgette, Snape and Rosier were already advancing towards the exit. No one looked like they had noticed her being weird.

Elza’s scalp felt cold and clammy under her hair, but her head was blissfully silent, clear, and entirely pain-free for the first time that day. 

* * *

“Bonjour!” Elza whispered as she jerked apart the drapes of Claire’s bed. Her face, looking more cheerful than it had all day, and certainly more than it was appropriate for the hour, popped in.

“It’s night,” said the pile of beddings that was Claire. “Where have you been so long? What’s that?”

“A beret! Do you like it? I got held up talking to Nathan in the common room, he got it for me in France,” said Elza. “You can wear it anytime you want. I know people say pink would clash with red hair, but I think you can definitely pull it off!” There was some sleepy muttering at the other end of the dormitory, and Elza quickly contained her excitement and lowered her voice a bit before she’d rouse Greta. “How many times do you want me to wake you up tomorrow?” 

Claire, feeling too tired to be annoyed, gave this some thought. “Two,” she said. “No, three.”

“Three it is!” chirped Elza. From what Claire could see through her drapes, she was starting her lengthy evening beauty routine. “You know what?” Elza continued, “I think I still have it in me to find some optimism about this year despite everything. It’s been a long day, but at least it's behind us. I thought about it and I decided to stay as positive as I can.” 

“Mhm,” said Claire, trying to keep her voice steady. She smoothed out the creased photo of Violet, Elza and herself at the Quidditch game and adjusted the position of her head to avoid the growing damp area of her pillow.


	4. A Whole Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyril is plagued by guilt and a secret he is keeping from his friends, Elza and Claire tackle their first day of school and try to reconnect, and the inter-house relations at Hogwarts are becoming increasingly tense.

Cyril was about to follow Rosier, Avery, and Mulciber out of the dormitory and towards breakfast when he felt his arm being gripped by strong, bony fingers.

“Wait,” Snape hissed under his breath.

They did so until the door closed, and Snape silently waved his wand in an already familiar shape. It seemed this would be an entirely private conversation.

“You undeserving cretin,” He spat. “Now that I finally have you alone, please, explain the absolute spectacle of idiocy you performed last night.”

“At… at Slug Club?” asked Cyril. Snape was seething, so he decided not to wait for an answer. “Look, I… I can’t stop thinking… they must suspect us! Especially Elza Polyak. She’s not stupid! You’ve seen that article! I just thought it would be better to know for sure what’s in her head. To be certain. She was there, she– she looked right at me, and I saw a chance– “

“Idiot,” Snape cut him off. Anger had made all the blood drain from his face, making him look waxen. “Polyak would have been the first to report anything suspicious, especially regarding her own housemate! What in the world made you think she knew anything?”

Cyril suddenly felt very dumb. Snape had a gift for affecting people this way. “I guess… I guess she looked… knowing?” he struggled.

“Even if you had found that she knew or suspected something,” continued Snape with a sneer, as it seemed that Cyril’s reply was so senseless that it didn’t warrant acknowledgement, “how would you use this information? What intelligent course of action did you have planned?”

Cyril didn’t have a real answer and felt more stupid than ever. Nothing he could use to defend himself was coming to his mind that didn’t sound like it would make things worse.

“And the final reason you’re an absolute imbecile,” Snape continued in a lecture-like tone, beginning to sound almost as if he was enjoying telling Cyril off, “is the fact that you tried to, wandlessly and wordlessly, in public, perform a spell you’ve barely scratched the surface of. Legilimency is studied for years! Is your miniscule brain even able to comprehend what you could have done? You entered a mind without knowing what you were doing. She could have felt your intrusion! You could have accidentally shown her your own thoughts instead, or made her a vegetable on the spot! We have no reliable way of knowing what exactly your mangled spell did, and what consequences this will have for us. For all we know, you may have given her brain damage last night. Thankfully, she’s in Hufflepuff, so she’ll likely graduate before anyone notices anyway.”

This would have usually made Cyril laugh, but he felt too nauseated. He looked at his feet.

“Listen to me carefully,” said Snape icily. “You’ve just made an already messy situation more complicated and put us at a higher risk of being found out. In case this happens, you won’t have just the others at your back. You know well enough that the Dark Lord is more likely to forgive stupidity,” he gestured towards Mulciber’s bed with his head, “than weakness. I suggest you work on those feelings of guilt as soon as possible before they make you act crazy again and drive us all into the ground.”

Cyril stared at Snape’s snarl for a few seconds, then nodded. “What do we do now?” he asked, his voice coming out hoarse and quiet through his tense throat.

Snape exhaled and looked away at a spot somewhere over Cyril’s shoulder. “Nothing. Observe. If Polyak starts acting odd or things seem off, we’ll have to decide what to do next. Meanwhile, I don’t suppose I need to be warning you about this,” he looked back at Cyril and cocked an eyebrow, “but I wouldn’t be telling any of the others about last night’s lunacy if I were you.”

“Of course,” Cyril swallowed.

“Did you see anything?” asked Snape.

“Hm?”

“Her mind. What did you find?”

“Uhhh… it was a soup of thoughts and feelings, honestly,” Cyril admitted. “Really vague. There was something rhythmical. Like reading a poem or a list. She felt tired. Also... closed.”

“What? Closed? Like she didn’t let you in?” a dose of alarm coloured Snape’s voice.

“No, not like that. She felt closed. Like… pressure, and tightness, and tension. Like a box is closed,” Cyril attempted to explain using his unremarkable vocabulary.

“I suppose that would be the current, superficial state of mind,” said Snape, obviously relieved. “Honestly, I’m surprised you achieved that much. Wouldn’t expect you to be able to go deeper at your level.” Snape looked pensive. “Closed and tense. I wonder what that’s about.”

Cyril almost mentioned how it could be because Polyak had recently lost a friend, but stopped himself just in time. Snape surely didn’t need a reminder of that. “I could have seen it wrong,” he said instead. “She didn’t seem it.”

“I suppose so,” said Snape, though his eyebrows and jaw still held some tension.

Somewhat relieved after this resolution, Cyril felt a shy bud of determination slowly emerge. Snape was certainly not the warmest, but he proved over and over again that he could handle a crisis, cooperate, and even aid. He was considered a promising future addition of the Dark Rebellion, and if the Dark Lord trusted him, who was Cyril not to? Yes. It would do him well not to keep secrets from Snape – for his own sake, and for that of the cause. He needed to tell him.

Ever since that night, Cyril had failed to rid himself of Violet Inskip’s bag.

The contents were quite unremarkable and mostly consisted of some second-hand seventh year books; in fact, it was likely that she had just purchased them in Diagon Alley the day she… Cyril stopped his own thoughts before delving too deep. The books themselves didn’t bother him too much - for a moment, even, he had considered using or selling them, but he quickly decided he wouldn’t be able to live with that, and they now rested in the very bag he found them in, tucked under his bed back at home. Whether it was because she hadn’t owned them for a very long time, or that he just didn’t view them as very personal, Cyril found himself being able to forget about them for entire hours at a time.

It had been her other possessions, however, that had caused a deep unsettlement to set up permanent residence in the depths of Cyril’s gut. These were mere trinkets, possibly even more boring than the books had been - a long, silver hairpin, what looked like ripped remnants of a bracelet woven out of colourful bits of twine, a small, empty tin box that seemed to have once contained some kind of Muggle citrus-flavoured sweets, and a faded, light blue diary with a perfectly still picture of a little girl holding a basket of flowers on the cover. For a knot of reasons that he didn’t dare try to untangle, these now resided in his own book bag, toted around just like they had been by their original owner. Logically and practically speaking, this was because of how personal, and therefore, easily identifiable they were, and if he were to get rid of them only to have someone else find and trace them back… well. Another good reason would have been his housemates. He had seen with how little respect Avery and Mulciber had treated others’ possessions in the past and how nosy they could get if left to their own devices, and he did not wish to chance leaving these things unattended in the dormitory and then having to explain them. He couldn’t quite imagine himself telling them about his morbid loot-

-except for Snape. He could imagine explaining it to Snape. In fact, he felt he needed to tell Snape before things were to become even more complicated, and he needed to do it as soon as possible.

Also, said Cyril to himself, if he was to aggravate Snape today, he may as well do it all at once instead of in instalments. That way, all of this might settle down in time for dinner.  
Swept up in valiant resolve, he opened his mouth. Before anything had a chance to come out, though, Snape spoke.

“Let’s go before the others start wondering where we are.”

Well, that’s it, opportunity missed, Cyril convinced himself as he followed through the door, making an internal promise to tell Snape later during the day, when the timing is better, whenever that might be. 

* * *

Elza had always claimed that getting up early and exercising made her feel good, and despite how much Claire didn’t want to believe it, the results were undeniable. By the time Claire had found it in herself to groggily respond to her third wake-up warning, the tired, grey-faced Prefect from the previous night had been replaced by a much chirpier, rosier version who had already finished her run around the lake, done her hair and put on the maximum amount of makeup she could get away with in school. As Claire was finishing her breakfast, Elza had already filled in some rubrics in her planner, consulted her Prefect’s duties schedule and prepared fresh quills and parchment for her first class.

Claire’s stomach filled with dread thinking of this; she couldn’t remember whether she had even brought any parchment to school at all, and she only had the vaguest idea about which classes she had today. After spending the past few weeks consumed with thoughts of Shrink, books and assignments were the last thing on her mind. Come to think of it, wasn’t this the reason why she felt so unprepared to start her seventh year? It certainly must have been, she thought. Actually, she felt some resentment towards Elza – after everything that had happened with Shrink, how did she find it in her to happily continue, no, look forward to school as if nothing was the matter? That’s right, Claire told herself with a vigorous conviction, it was unnatural. Now was the time to grieve, not the time to jump into schoolwork. How could anyone think about grades now as if nothing had happened at all? Shrink was gone. It hurt. It would be disrespectful to her memory to go on as usual. In fact, Claire told herself decisively, that would make her a bad friend.

Despite not having uttered a word as she downed her toast and sausage, Claire had begun to feel darkly gleeful, as if she had won an argument. The initial dread was gone, replaced by this strange excitement, and she became determined to share these thoughts with Elza, who would surely feel put in her place after realizing how inappropriately normal her behaviour had been.

“You know,” Claire started triumphantly, but was surprised to see that Elza was looking into the distance and seemed uncharacteristically unfocused, eyes glazed, a small smile tugging at her glossed lips.

“Do you think Cyril Fidgette would be too scared to date taller?” she said.

“What?” A piece of sausage fell off of Claire’s fork. Her sleepy mind had already been struggling to achieve full processing power, and now felt like it had been knocked off course by a Bludger.

“You’re right, That’s silly; why would he? Only insecure men are like that. Greta, what do you think?”

Greta Catchlove gave Elza a slightly cautious look from across the table. Even in her muzzy state, Claire could understand why – there was a good chance that, whomever Greta had been interested in at some point, had, in turn, been interested in Elza. “Uh… I don’t know. I hardly know him,” said Greta. “Why do you ask? Do you like him?”

“Yup!” said Elza cheerfully.

“What?” said Claire again stupidly, trying to urge her own brain to catch up to whatever madness was happening.

“I think he’s cute,” Elza shrugged as if this was the most casual statement in the world. For someone like her, though, it likely was, thought Claire.

Greta looked somewhat relieved. It seemed that, whoever had been on her mind, hadn’t been Fidgette. “Uh, I mean, if you say so. I think he’s sort of scrawny,” she added, glancing in the same direction Elza had been looking, which Claire automatically copied. The three girls stared at Cyril Fidgette who was at the Slytherin table, scrawnily and unremarkably eating his eggs. “Is he your type?” Greta asked in an almost disappointed tone.

“Who isn’t,” the bitterness escaped Claire before she could stop herself.

She couldn’t even pinpoint where exactly it had come from - perhaps it was Elza’s ability to just move on with her life, leaving _some of us_ to stew in grief. It could have been her perpetual cycle of developing a liking for a boy, easily indulging in this and then quickly becoming bored, losing interest and moving on to the next one while some of us would be overjoyed to receive any kind of attention at all. Maybe it was simply how annoyingly she had arranged all her quills in her bag and packed all her little agendas. The only thing Claire was sure of was that it sounded so horrible, so much worse than she had intended it to, that it startled all three of them, herself possibly most of all.

For a moment, Greta and Elza looked at her, wide-eyed and without a word.

“That was a bit unkind, don’t you think,” Greta broke the silence.

Elza, however, let out a hearty laugh. “Well, I’ve been around, but I’m not exactly the town broomstick!” She gave Claire a playful pat on the back, making her feel simultaneously relieved and even worse about herself. This seemed enough for Greta, though, who probably figured that it was some sort of strange inside joke between the thr- two of them, and left it alone, announcing that she was heading to meet with Diligence Pinebark before Herbology.

Once the immediate party was reduced to two, Claire swore at herself internally. The situation reminded her of the funeral – another time she had been needlessly cruel to Elza for reasons she couldn’t explain. It’s not that her friend didn’t occasionally deserve to be knocked down a peg, but Claire’s usual healthy dose of sardonic wit seemed to have recently turned into something much darker, something angry, which impatiently clawed at any chance to hurt Elza’s feelings.

“So, uhhh, what do you see in him?” said Claire instead of apologizing.

“Cyril Fidgette?” asked Elza, and her eyes became glazed again. “It’s hard to explain,” she sighed. “Do you know that feeling when you lock eyes with someone, and everything just falls into place? Like, suddenly, everything that was bothering you seems so unimportant, and your heart starts beating like crazy, and you feel warm, and so excited but so calm at the same time, and somehow, everything is just… _right_ in that moment?”

Against her will, Claire glanced towards the Gryffindor table. Sirius Black was rocking in his seat, his arms behind his head and a satisfied smirk on his face. Judging by the roar of laughter around him, he seemed to have just said something amusing.

“Still?” asked Elza.

“Hmph,” said Claire.

“You’re too good for the likes of him, you know,” said Elza.

Claire struggled for a moment, searching for something to divert with, but help came in the form of a chubby first-year girl with a bobbed haircut.

“Ex-excuse me, Elza?” the girl said timidly.

“Hmm? Yes? Portia, right?” said Elza, and Claire, to whom all first-years looked the same, was impressed.

“Uh, yes,” continued Portia, “you said to come to you if we want to ask anything? I think I might have something to ask?” Portia’s uncertainty made every sentence sound like a question.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Um, well… our first class today is Transfiguration? And it’s with the Slytherin students? And… some people have been saying to watch out for Slytherins? That they can’t be trusted? They say that most of them turn out bad?”

Claire and Elza looked at each other.

“Which people have been saying that?” Elza sighed, and for a second, Claire noticed her eyes darting towards the Gryffindor table and back. “Actually, never mind that. Here’s what you do, Portia: when you go into the Transfiguration classroom, I want you to look at all the Slytherin students, choose one that seems the nicest to you, sit next to them and make friends. Alright?”

“Um, yes?”

“Imagine if someone was going ‘round and saying mean things about you, and as a result, no one wanted to be friends. It’d feel pretty lonely, don’t you think?”

“I actually did think it sounded a bit mean?” Portia looked relieved.

“Good luck in Transfiguration,” said Elza. Got your wand with you?”

Portia nodded, but still felt up her own robe, just to be sure.

“Good girl,” said Elza. “I forgot mine on my first day. Made a fool of myself,” she winked. “Here, have the last poppy seed roll.”

After sending Portia off, Elza neatly gathered her things and stood up. Claire followed, pondering whether she should have stuffed a sausage roll into her bag for later while she still had a chance. To Claire’s surprise, instead of heading to the exit, Elza made a sharp turn towards the end of the Gryffindor table. Claire’s throat immediately dried up; Sirius Black was still there, now engaged in what seemed to be a very jovial conversation with his mates. His smile showed a row of straight, brilliantly white teeth, and his hair looked very shiny in the morning light, and Claire wondered what it would be like to-

“Hi, James,” said Elza, scanning the table for something. “Lily took off already?”

“Oh, hi! Yeah, Herbology,” said James Potter. You?”

“Actually, I’m sorta glad I caught you instead of her,” Elza said, though, possibly only to Claire, she didn’t look it. “I really need your help with something.”

“My help?” Potter looked surprised.

“Yeah… I heard from one of mine–“ she gestured conspiringly towards the Hufflepuff table with her head, “-that there’s been some talk about Slytherin ‘round the first years. Warning them to stay away and such.”

“Sound advice, if you ask me,” Potter frowned. “Nothing but bad news from that crowd, to put it mildly.”

“Right,” said Elza, “but you know how it is… that sorta thing tends to easily become a whole thing here,” she rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, “and what worries me most about it is Lily.”

“Lily? Why?” Potter suddenly seemed far more alert.

“You know this entire Slytherin issue has been a sore spot for her since the fifth year… and it’s only the first week of her being Head Girl. Doesn’t really need to be reminded of all that at the very start, does she? I can easily see her getting more upset if she catches this kind of talk going ‘round.”

“Huh… good point,” said Potter, looking deep in thought.

“So, I say, we pick it up instead. Discourage too much Slytherin talk, encourage overall caution instead, and that’ll about do it. I’ll keep mine in check, you keep yours, and I’ll speak to Diligence about it too. That way Lily can have less to worry about,” said Elza, and then added with a grin, “and likely more free time to focus on other things too.”

James looked quite pleased with this, but before he could comment on it, he was interrupted by a strong arm being slung around his shoulder.

“Polyak! What’s so important to keep a growing boy from his breakfast?” said Sirius Black, his voice sounding as if he was about to break into his hearty, barky laugh any second. Claire wished more than anything that she could, at least just for one moment, be clever and funny enough to say something cool that would amuse him. Unfortunately, all that came to her was the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her eardrums and the heat that lit up her cheeks.

“Oh, hi, Black. Y’know, just Prefect stuff,” said Elza. “Boring, really.”

“You sure about that?” said Sirius. “You do realize that this is a taken man, right?” he gave James Potter, who seemed to be growing more embarrassed by the second, a rough jiggle. “Luckily for you, though, there’s plenty of available men still! What if I asked you to Hogsmeade with me the first possible weekend, Polyak?” Sirius flashed Elza that bright grin of his, and Claire felt an icy tightness in her chest.

“What if I said no?” said Elza.

“I’d ask you again and request that you please say yes.”  


“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

“Too bad,” shrugged Sirius, looking, to Claire’s minor relief, entirely unperturbed by this outcome. “I suppose I’ll have to move you a few spots down on my list; sorry ‘bout that. Oh, hi there, Fawley,” his eyes seemed to skim Claire and he gave an absent-minded nod in her direction.

“Yep,” said Claire. “I’m here too. Been here all along.”

“If you do end up changing your mind,” Sirius looked at Elza again, “you know where to find me, but please, don’t be upset if you find you’d missed your chance by then!”

“I’ll somehow find the strength to move on,” said Elza before she softly gripped Claire’s shoulder and proceeded to move towards the exit, and Claire wished she could say the same thing. 

* * *

“…just not right, you know? How would you feel if… a self-fulfilling prophecy! …Stand up for these poor children… give a better example …everybody an equal chance…”

Claire, who had been tuning in and out of Elza’s monologue as they made their way through the busy corridors, nodded. A significant part of her mind was still engaged in replaying the exchange they’d had with Sirius a while ago. He did say hi to her, after all. Entirely unprompted, too.

“…talk to Nathan about this and see what he… label and ostracise an entire group of people!”

“Mhm,” said Claire. His tie was always loose and the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, she thought. If she did the same, would that make her look cool, or like she was trying too hard?

“…what happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty?’ …too much time on our hands… more homework, it seems… mind their own business. The school oughta… Don’t you agree? Hey, watch it!”

“Hm?” said Claire, right before Elza grabbed her sleeve and gave her a sharp tug. Right in front of her left foot, a gap began to emerge between the floor and the staircase. Wood squeaked and crackled unpleasantly, and the two came apart. The stairs rotated counter-clockwise, traveling towards a landing on the opposite end of the corridor, where they finally anchored themselves in a completely useless location.

“Motherfucker,” said Elza through her teeth. A couple of other students behind them groaned in displeasure. “Let’s go around. Anyway, what would you do?”

Claire’s brain scrambled to come up with anything related to the topic. If she were to be honest, things such as these were the exact reason why she’d never been interested in a Prefect position. She had a hard time staying on top of her own responsibilities, let alone worrying about what other people were doing. If Elza’s already monumental ego had required any further stroking, Claire would have long ago told her that she actually quite admired how Elza handled these things.

There were, indeed, Slytherin alumni who had joined the Dark Cause immediately after graduation, and one could assume that the rumours about some of the current students held some truth as well. However, over the past few years, the attitude which the other houses held towards Slytherin had soured to the point of unacceptable cruelty, and even if there had been something less than savoury going on, this was certainly no way to handle it.

“I agree,” said Claire finally.

“Good,” Elza sighed. “You’re late.”

“Sorry, I just needed to think about it a little.”

“No, I mean, you’re late to your class. You’ve got Herbology, right?”

Claire stared blankly.

“This is History of Magic,” said Elza. “Third floor.”

“Then what am I doing following you?” Claire exclaimed, fumbling with her bag and pockets in a panic, unable to remember where she had put her class schedule and whether she had anything she needed for the day.

“Been wondering the same thing myself, honestly,” said Elza. “Hurry up!”

And Claire did, pushing against a line of protesting fourth-years and cursing up a right hurricane under her breath.

* * *

One very crumpled up and already written on piece of parchment, one dog-eared black leather-bound notebook, a few sticky chocolate wrappers and a long, silver hairpin that looked like it had been borrowed from Elza and then promptly forgotten about – these turned out to be the contents of Claire’s school bag.

To be frank, it was not as bad as it could have been. A quill and some ink were easily borrowable, and there were certainly much worse places to spend the first morning class than Glasshouse 6. Professor Sprout was one of the few particularly merciful members of the Hogwarts staff and showed great consideration towards her sleepy students by easing them into the year with quite a relaxed lecture. While Claire hadn’t exactly started the year on the right foot, the circumstances made up for it, she thought. Actually, some quiet, stress-free notetaking could be just what she needed - a way to be productive without immediately feeling overwhelmed. This year showed promise, Claire thought. This might be the time she’d finally turn things around and do better.

She opened the notebook with the fierce determination of a new beginning, ready to stab at it with Greta’s quill, and immediately froze as if she had turned into marble.

Shrink’s handwriting, small, neat and rounded, stared at her from the first page. Claire blinked. Did she somehow end up with one of Shrink’s notebooks instead of her own? She shakily turned a few pages, barely allowing her fingers to touch the paper. About twenty or so were filled with Shrink’s writing. Or, wait, were they really? No, it wasn’t only Shrink’s – there were different handwritings too, there was Elza’s, and her own…

…oh. This was that notebook.

Claire uncertainly tapped the tip of Greta’s quill against the edge of the cover a few times. It should still work, right? Elza was exceptional at the Protean Charm; she had practiced it for months on end since their fourth year, fixated on perfecting it. On the other hand, this notebook, along with its two companions, was made somewhere in the early stages of this fixation, while Elza was still trying to get it right. The connection between the notebooks was strong and clear, and it worked as intended – anything written in one of them would appear in the other two as well. This made for a great way of inconspicuously communicating with each other, whether it be long distance over the summer or during class. Yet, Elza had struggled with how a new written line would be signalled to the other two owners of the notebook. In an attempt to figure this out, she had managed to get them to warm up after new content would be added, but didn’t do so well at making them stop. This, sometimes, resulted in a notebook that would stay pleasantly toasty for several days. At other times, though, especially after some longer sessions of uninterrupted correspondence, the pages would become dangerously hot, which was a sign that they needed to be given at least a few hours of rest before the next message.

Claire pressed her palm against a page on reflex, but immediately felt embarrassed, realizing how stupid it was to expect it to be warm. It may have been because the notebooks were ultimately inconvenient in their unpredictability, or simply because the girls have fallen out of habit of using them for no specific reason, but Claire couldn’t remember how long it had been since the last message.

Or, wait. It had been long since her last message. A tightness suddenly gripped her heart. What if Elza and Shrink had written to each other without her? Claire quickly leafed through the part that was filled in and instantly felt relief upon reaching the end. The final exchange was a familiar one, that happened between all three of them, and the rest of the pages were entirely blank. Claire sighed, feeling a bit embarrassed at her own insecurity. For all she knew, the others could have forgotten about their notebooks just as she had about hers.

Suddenly, a memory flashed in Claire’s mind, and it was that image of Shrink in the Hogwarts Quidditch field, squinting in the sun, Elza’s arm around her; before she could feel another pang of grief, though, Claire remembered exactly where she had recently seen it – between the pages of Elza’s shiny, apple-green notebook in which she kept her newspaper clippings.

Come to think of it, there had been a splash of bright green somewhere among all of Elza’s little planners she had been packing that very morning, hadn’t it?

Claire felt overcome with sadness and guilt for the countless time in a fortnight. Elza held onto this notebook and took it everywhere, while she had forgotten hers had even existed.

She opened the first blank page. For all she knew, she could be misremembering, or Elza might not have her notebook on her right now, or she could have it, but not be paying attention. Wouldn’t it be incredibly stupid for Claire to write something, only for no one to even notice? She tapped the quill against the cover again and then dipped it into the ink pot.

**Hi** , she wrote.

Even if Elza ends up checking her notebook and seeing it, it might be a few weeks bef-

Familiar sharp, elongated handwriting immediately appeared on the page, first faintly, then quickly becoming more apparent.

_Hi. Looks like you’d resort to anything to avoid paying attention in Herbology._

**haha good one youre doing the exact same thing** , Claire wrote back.

_I know how to multitask_ , came Elza’s reply, punctuated with a tiny drawing of a heart with a face.

Claire’s cheeks hurt, and she realized that, for the first time in weeks, she was truly, honestly smiling. She leaned over her notebook and began scribbling back, and all thoughts of paying more attention in class and doing better this year were gone.

* * *

On the other side of the castle, Cyril Fidgette felt warmth as he reached into his school bag.


End file.
